A tangle of wind-mown reeds tripped him and pitched him to his knees
among the high marsh growth.
He did not rise.
The babe in pain cries to his mother; the man in his maturity may
outgrow the susceptibility to tears, but he never outwears the want of
a stronger spirit upon which to call in his hour of distress.
For Kenkenes it had been a far cry, from his careless days and his
empyrean populous with deities, to this utter and unhappy night and one
unseen Power. In that time he had run the gamut of sensations from a
laugh to a wail. Now was his need the sorest of all his life. The
most helpful of all hands must aid him. His fathers' gods were in the
dust. What of that unapproachable, unfeeling Omnipotence he had
created in their stead?
He fell on his face and prayed.
"O Thou, who art somewhere behind the phantom gods that we have raised!
To whom all prayer ascends by many-charted paths; Thou who canst spread
this sooty night across the morning skies and turn to milk the bones of
men! Thou who didst undo my surest plans, who dost mock my boasted
power, who hast stripped me till my feeble self is bared to me even in
this dreadful night; Thou who wast a fending hand about her; who art
her only succor now--to whom she prays--and by that sign, Thou Very
God! I bow to Thee.
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